


Not Quite Silly Season

by diemme



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Male Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diemme/pseuds/diemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many years in the future, there might be something rotten in the state of ACF Fiorentina...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Silly Season

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2010 for a challenge on Livejournal. The usual disclaimer applies: It's all fiction and not meant to imply anything about anyone's sexuality.
> 
> In the distant future, all professional footballers are clones of past players known as 'Originators.' Clones are categorised as 'Sentient Property' with limited rights laid out in the 'Cloning Accords.'

Rui Costa glanced at his computer terminal, shut his eyes tightly, massaged his temples and counted to ten for the third time that morning. He opened his eyes hopefully but to no avail, the messages were still there. He sighed, poured a little coffee into his morning whiskey and settled in to read.  
  
 **ACF FIORENTINA INTER CLUB MEMO**  
  
TO: M. RUI COSTA, SPORTING DIRECTOR  
  
RE:  
  
INTENT TO TERMINATE: GILARDINO, A-11  
INTENT TO TERMINATE: TONI, L-30  
  
FROM: S. MIHAJLOVIC, HEAD COACH  
  
  
 **UNIVERSAL ATHLETIC CLONING**  
  
DEPT: EUROPEAN FOOTBALL  
REGION: EUROPE  
DIVISION: ITALY: SERIE A  
LINE: 2006 WC WINNERS  
MODEL: GIILARDINO, A-11  
MODEL: TONI, L-30  
  
REQ: ACF FIORENTINA, ITALY  
  
It was going to be one of those days, Rui thought to himself. Sinisa had been shirty at best since Universal Athletic Cloning had placed his model on hiatus and Fiorentina promoted him to Head Coach. Rui, long sidelined and promoted himself, had tried to point out the bright side. He looked round his corner office with its state of the art view screen, espresso machine, mini fridge and bar containing his limited edition, Luis Figo glasses. He leaned back in his executive chair with its neck support, back massager and seat warmer. He made important decisions; people listened to him…most times, anyway. At the end of the workday, he was free to enjoy himself before heading home to his apartment instead of being herded to the football residences and locked down for the night. Best of all, he could grow old and die of natural causes instead of being humanely terminated after seven years of football.  
  
Sinisa just didn’t appreciate the little things, Rui thought sadly, sipping more whiskey. For him there was no higher calling than living and dying for the cause of professional football, in reverence to the great Originators. Sinisa always had a holy and maniacal light in his eyes when he spoke of them. Rui was more realistic, the Originators had just been lucky enough to play football before the third, fourth and fifth World Wars had practically decimated the planet and the population leaving few resources and less talent to devote to professional sports. Then by the time the world sorted itself out again people were just too lazy and too used to clones performing for their entertainment to bother taking up sports again. Rui could hear bellowing down the hall. Sinisa enjoyed yelling at people and head coaches did a lot of that. He’d point that out to him the next time Sinisa started bitching about being sidelined. He drained the last of his whiskey as his door flew open.  
  
“I can’t authorize this. It’s not in the budget for another four years,” Rui pounced on the offensive as Sinisa paused for breath between bellows. “They’re both perfectly healthy.”  
  
“They aren’t healthy,” Sinisa pounded his fist on Rui’s desk. “They’re sick, perverse, inverted, bent, queer and vile!” The Luis Figo bobbleheads on the desk set to bobbling indignantly, Rui stared at them, groping desperately for new strategy. A Sinisa who could find six adjectives for a situation wouldn’t be deterred by bottom line bluster.  
  
“You exaggerate, Sinisa.”  
  
“I have proof!” The irate coach strode to the viewer and inserted a data chip, “On!”  
  
The viewer obeyed, displaying a section of the tunnel. Luca Toni had Alberto Gilardino pressed against the wall, their lips locked together. Luca’s large hand teased the other man’s cock through his silky training shorts. Rui swallowed hard, he chose those shorts for the team himself. Gila squirmed in pleasure under the delicious stroking and squeezing to the inevitable conclusion.  
  
At the same time, in the Cecchi Gori memorial stall of the executive bathroom, Luca Toni switched on his remote viewer and nudged Alberto Gilardino, “See, told you!”  
  
“The bastard  _was_  spying on us,” Gila concurred, “your actions were justified.”  
  
Luca caught him up in a fierce snuggle. He couldn’t help it, Gila was just so damn adorable when he agreed with him. “I had to make a hard decision. I know you like to believe the best of everyone, Al.”  
  
“It’s expected,” Gila gasped as he recovered his breath, straightened his clothes and combed his fingers through his hair, “I am the nice one. You’re the goof…smart, practical one.”  
  
Luca puffed out his chest, “I’ll be smart for both of us, Al.”  
  
“You do that,” Gila nodded, his eyes on the viewer. The scene in Rui’s office had changed, his viewer showing Gila in a bedroom, on his knees before a gloriously naked Luca. As Gila watched Rui and Sinisa watch him fellate Luca, he felt the striker slip behind him and nudge him hopefully in the butt cheek. He shrugged, they had some time and he was lubed and ready anyway.  
  
In the office, Rui was desperately hoping Sinisa would end his little presentation before Gila’s lips slid down Luca’s cock one more time. Luca tugging on the ends of his hair to urge him on wasn’t helping either. The scene changed again; the pair in bed, Gila astride Luca, rocking his pelvis back and forth, their fingers intertwined. They were flushed and slick with exertion, long hair tangled, faces contorted with passion. Sinisa stood stone faced, Rui slid lower in his chair, thanked God there was no sound and carefully spread his 100-year anniversary Figo hoodie over his lap.  
  
“Sinisa, this is a blatant invasion of privacy,” Rui sounded a lot calmer than he felt. It pleased and encouraged him. “I’ll grant the tunnel is a public place but monitoring their living quarters is expressly forbidden by the 25th Amendment of the Cloning Accords…”  
  
They’re property of the club, Rui,” Sinisa spat, “bought and paid for and nothing they do is private! Their behavior is a slap in the face of ACF Fiorentina, the club we’ve both devoted our lives to serving with pride and honour!” Sinisa thrust out his chest and burst two middle buttons on his shirt. “I demand their termination and replacement!”  
  
“That’s the kind of talk that brings the  _People for the Ethical Treatment of Clones_  sniffing round us with interest,” Rui protested, “and they’re already suspicious about that accident to our last Cristian Chivu.”  
  
“He fell down the stairs and broke his neck,” the coach bristled.  
  
“The autopsy found a size twelve shoe print on his backside!”  
  
“An autopsy for a clone,” even Sinisa’s hair quivered with disdain, “what a waste!”  
  
“Sentient property, Sinisa,” Rui abandoned his desk, furious now, “living beings and not robots or dolls to be broken and discarded at your will” he stood toe to toe with the coach. “Sentient property just like you and me.”  
  
Sinisa leaned in, almost bumping noses with Rui, he snarled, “ _I_  never forget what I am!”  
  
The blood was roaring through Rui’s veins as it used to on the football pitch. He was livid but exhilarated – the sort of feeling that drove a man to kick his opponent up the bum or tell the referee just what he could do with his cards and whistle. It would be vastly satisfying to kick Sinisa through the office window to the courtyard below. He could almost hear the crowd cheering him on.  
  
At this pivotal moment, the stars of the earlier porn presentation burst noisily into the office. The coach and the sporting director, keyed up to the highest pitch, turned on them with bared teeth.

  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“Mind the paneling! And what are you doing here?”  
  
Luca grinned toothily, unfazed by men he towered over, “We’re just here to prevent any ugly scenes… _Il Mister_  and the Boss Man almost coming to blows, there’s something against that in the Code of Ethics and Professional Conduct, I’m sure.”  
  
“Luca,” Gila laid a restraining hand on the striker’s arm, “don’t get sidetracked. Let’s do what we came here to do.” The man’s brown eyes were calm, his voice even and Rui found his anger cooling. He just wished Gila were wearing anything but the silky violet training shorts from the video.  
  
Luca covered Gila’s hand with his own, stroking it tenderly, “Right as always, Al. You’re meeting about us so why shouldn’t we be here?”  
  
“Listening at doors?” Sinisa’s contempt was obvious.  
  
“That’s so three centuries ago,” Luca was equally disgusted, “we bugged the office.”   
  
“You little bastards!” Sinisa spat as he strode towards them. Rui glanced round the office nervously, wondering where the camera was and if it had caught him playing with his Portuguese Golden Generation Action Figures.  
  
“Hoist by your own petard, there, aren’t you,  _Il Mister?_ ” Gila countered. “Considering you bugged our bedrooms...”  
  
“With good cause, you filthy perverts!” the coach snapped, “Fornicating like animals with each other. Thousands of women throwing themselves at you both and you turn to each other! What does the club say when this gets out? Did you ever think of that?”  
  
“Why should it get out?” Gila’s question was reasonable. “You seem to be the only one paying attention to our sex lives.” Rui risked a glance at the man’s shorts and wished that was true.  
  
“Obsessed is more like it,” Luca grinned and wrapped a long arm around Gila, cupping his hip possessively. “Bit of a voyeur, aren’t you, Coach? Interested or just jealous?”  
  
“I’ll wring your necks myself…” Sinisa made a lunge for the strikers and Rui made a dive for Sinisa, not eager to clean up assorted bits of people and silky little shorts. Luca preempted them by stepping in front of Gila. The coach bounced off his chest and knocked Rui ass over teakettle into the recliner in his aromatherapy corner. Luca flexed his arms and looked dangerous while his bosses picked themselves up.  
  
“The camera’s still recording, Coach; signal could be broadcasting anywhere,” Gila tried to bring them back on track. “What would the Board of Directors say if  _PETC_  picked up this story or  _CLF?_ ” Even Sinisa looked nonplussed at the mention of the  _Clone Liberation Front_. That radical group formed and lead by a rogue Gennaro Gattuso who had successfully destroyed every scrap of his Orginator’s DNA before escaping AC Milan. Lately he’d been active in Madrid, blowing up a research facility rumoured to be developing a new Cristiano Ronaldo. Sporting Director and Coach shared a moment of frozen horror.  
  
Gila took advantage of the respite and settled himself on Rui’s plush leather couch, displaying about a mile of toned, tanned leg. Luca stood at his side, his brooding colossus vibe somewhat spoiled by tender glances and shoulder squeezes. “Let’s consider the Originators for a moment.”   
  
Automatically, all four bowed their heads silently, contemplating that time of legend and glory, long before WWIII, when footballers were nurtured and trained from boyhood instead of purchased from the European Football division of Universal Athletic Cloning. Rui was especially wistful, even a horde of small boys couldn’t be half as much trouble.  
  
“We’re made in the image of our Originators, each clone a link in the chain of past to present,” there were general nods. Gila went on, “We’re cloned from their DNA, we look like them, and we possess their talent and skills. Is it not logical that we share their feelings and desires as well?”  
  
Rui had always been quick, “You mean you and Luca want each other because Originators Toni and Gilardino wanted each other?”  
  
“That’s right,” Luca beamed and sat next to Gila, scooping him into his lap, “we’re in love just like they were.”  
  
“Blasphemy!” Sinisa was purple with rage again. Luca tossed Gila to the couch with an apologetic look and resumed guarding duties. Rui tensed for another quick spring at Sinisa. Gila straightened his hair and regarded the scene with interest. He wondered if Sinisa was going to have an aneurism right here in the office. A previous incarnation had stroked out on the sidelines on during a match with Juventus. It had been a free admission day for the kids’ fan club, the Pee Wee Purples, too and he bet the Public Relations department was still dealing with fall out from irate parents  
  
“You’re both defective,” Sinisa shook his finger at the pair, “impaired, deficient, faulty, flawed, substandard…” he floundered, six adjectives appearing to be his limit.  
  
“Open your eyes, you fossil. Bisexuality was a reality in the time of the Originators and you don’t think some of them swung both ways? Read the Originator Maldini’s autobiography,  _Reflections of a Long, Long Life._  Look in between the lines of his “partnership” with Originator Nesta,” Luca’s fingers sliced the air in exaggerated quotation marks.   
  
“We could send him a copy of  _Pippo Inzaghi, the Man I Loved and Lost_ , by Cristian Vieri; you know, the one who was never cloned?” Gila interjected. “It’s rare as hen’s teeth but it’s a great read.”  
  
“Foul lies,” yelled Sinisa with great finality.  
  
Gila shrugged, “I didn’t want to do this but, as you won’t listen to reason. Luca, bring out the big gun.”  
  
There was some sputtering, outraged on Sinisa’s part and terrified on Rui’s, as Luca reached into his pants and fiddled about before removing a data chip wallet. He glanced at Rui as though asking permission and the Sporting Director waved him on with trepidation. The video opened onto a bedroom strange to him but familiar to Sinisa if the howl was anything to go by.  
  
“You bugged my apartment?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Luca grinned. “We bugged those stupid coaching awards the Pee Wee Purples kept making for you.”   
  
There was a package visible on the bed. Rui leaned in, squinted his eyes and read, “Victoria Secret?” With a roar of fury, Sinisa launched himself at the viewer. Gila sprang to action and tossed a Luis Figo blanket to Luca. It was the work of a moment for the big man to envelop the coach, sweep his feet from under him and sit on him for good measure. Rui was sure he should protest such action and he fully intended to, strongly. Just as soon as he found out what was in the package.  
  
While the Sinsia in the office kicked and yelled, a towel wrapped Sinisa appeared on the video and opened the package. Rui’s jaw dropped as the coach ran his hands over a bra and a pair of skimpy panties in luscious Fiorentina purple.  
  
“I spotted you slipping into those panties once in the dressing room,” Luca addressed the blanket. “Al wouldn’t let me tell anyone until now.”  
  
On screen, Sinisa slipped into the unmentionables without removing the towel, much to everyone’s secret relief. Once covered, he stuffed the bra with falsies and admired the effect in the mirror. A long blonde wig, garter belt, thigh highs and pumps followed and the group was treated a series of front, side and back poses with kittenish looks in the mirror.   
  
“With that complexion I’d avoid purple,” Luca heaved himself off the blanket and Sinisa lay, defeated, like a wilted flower. Just as Rui was thinking about ordering up some bleach from housekeeping, on screen Sinisa shimmied into a tight black skirt, camisole and white silk blouse. The effect was rather Film Noir-dangerous, sexy secretary. It wouldn’t be half bad on someone without a bright red face, podgy tummy and tree trunk thighs, Rui considered, sneaking another look at Gila’s legs.  
  
“Shut it off, Luca, we’ve made our point,” Gila instructed. A coach minding his own business was one thing but a coach reduced to limp spaghetti was quite another – they  _were_  in with a chance at the league title this year. Luca obeyed reluctantly then manhandled Sinisa into sitting up.  
  
“We never wanted to go there, Coach,” Gila sat down next to him. “But you gave us no choice.”  
  
“We’re giving you one, now,” Luca continued grimly. “Stay out of our bedrooms and we’ll stay out of yours. Drop the termination talk or we’ll drop a copy of this,” he held up the data chip, “at every news network in the country.” Sinisa flinched and whimpered, not up to speech. “Forget about our perversion and we’ll forget yours.”  
  
“As if anyone  _could_  forget that purple bra,” Rui muttered under his breath, he had his doubts, personally. “Get to training, you two, and tell the staff that Sinisa is taking the day off. Somehow, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”  
  
“Rui’s a good guy,” Luca noted as the pair strolled down to the training ground. “His birthday is soon, yeah? We should get him something. What do you think he’d like?”  
  
“Did you see that office?” Gila grinned. “Luis Figo.” As Luca swept him up in a kiss, overwhelmed by his brilliance, he decided against telling him that Rui had pocketed the surveillance video.


End file.
